


Birthday Boy - Mini Fic #1

by TheNightComesDown



Series: Mini Fics [1]
Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: Classic Rock, Fluff, M/M, The Who Fic, birthday shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20347291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: Pete gives John a sweet gift for his birthday.





	Birthday Boy - Mini Fic #1

“I’ve just got to pop down to the shops,” Pete announced, standing up and adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Meet you three at the train for quarter past, yeah?” Roger waved in affirmation, and Keith hollered out a request for cigs and a package of sweets, which Pete ignored.

When the door of the flat clicked shut, John shifted himself backwards and kicked his feet up onto the end of the sofa, taking up the space Pete had previous been occupying. He blew a puff of air upwards at his fringe, attempting to readjust his mess of black hair, which Pete had been absentmindedly running his fingers through for the past hour or so. Roger's stifled laughter implied that John had failed miserably - the black mop remained a mess. 

“Maybe Pete’s gone to pick you up a bit of Dippity-Do for your birthday, John-boy,” the vocalist suggested. “Wouldn’t that be sweet of ‘im?” Keith snickered, siding with Roger on a joke for the first time in ages; it was usually John and Keith who teased the golden-haired singer about his rigorous grooming regimen, not the other way around. 

“My money’s on something for _the boudoir_,” Keith drawled, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I’m sure Pete looks lovely in a little red slip.” With a pained groan, John hurled a decorative pillow at the drummer’s head. 

“You bloody wish you could see Pete in a frock,” the bassist said, clearly miffed by Keith’s comment. “It’s a sight, I’ll have you know.” It was an obvious lie, but Keith’s face contorted into a grimace of disgust at the thought nonetheless. 

“Disturbing image, that,” Roger complained, hauling himself up from the cushion of Pete and John’s collapsing armchair. “Let’s be off and never speak of it again, shall we?” He offered a hand to John, who accepted it suspiciously. 

“It’s my birthday, remember,” John warned, allowing Roger to pull him to his feet, “And I’ve just bought these trousers. If you’ve got some ridiculous outing planned where I'm going to have to climb up a train bridge, at least tell me so I can put something else on.” Keith slapped his friend on his shoulder reassuringly. 

“Oh, come off it, you silly old ox,” he giggled. “You know Pete’d never let us do something terrible on your birthday, now that he’s your bird and all.” Roger cuffed Keith upside the head for his comment, and the drummer let out an exaggerated screech in response. The landlord was likely unimpressed by all the noise coming from the flat; Keith had been the cause of noise complaints on three separate occasions, even though Pete and John had only moved in a month prior. 

“Pete’s not my bird,” John growled in annoyance. “He’s…well, never mind that. Hush up and let's be off before we miss the train.” The group retrieved their jackets, all odd colours and styles, from the coat rack in the cramped front hall. 

“Look at this,” Roger said, pinching the sleeve of a Union Jack-patterned men’s blazer. “Townshend’s gone and forgotten his jacket here. He’ll be whinging that he's chilly all evening, I reckon.” Taking the hint, John grabbed Pete’s blazer once he’d slipped his arms into his own red tailored jacket. 

“Good call, Dip,” John said by way of thanks. Roger ducked his head in response and gave John's wrist an affectionate squeeze. Keith tore the front door open and took off towards the staircase, heading down to the block’s main entrance. Roger followed, rolling his eyes at the younger musician’s energy. 

“You’ll lock up and meet us downstairs?” The singer called back over his shoulder. The bassist's short grunt was all he received in reply. John fished around in his trouser pocket for his keys and twisted the deadbolt shut with a flick of his wrist. Stuffing the keys back into his pocket, John hurried after the others, not wanting to have to walk ahead to the next station in the event they missed this one. The heels of his black suede boots clomped heavily against the hollow plywood-framed stairs on his way, and the echo bounced off the peeling walls of the stairwell. 

When he reached the front door and pushed his way out into the cool, sunny afternoon, he noticed that his companions had disappeared into the ether. In their place was Pete, looking particularly bashful with one arm hidden behind his back. John quirked an eyebrow at his partner in silent communication; _where have those two hooligans gone?_

“Gave ‘em fifteen quid and told ‘em both that there’s a lunch special at the pub,” Pete explained. John nodded, impressed by Pete’s quick thinking. 

“So, it’s only us, then?” John inquired, stepping towards his partner. Pete pulled his hidden arm from behind his back and produced a lovely little bouquet wrapped in brown paper, whose flowers resembled those from John’s mother’s little front garden in Acton. 

“Only us,” Pete nodded, watching in quiet delight as John leaned forward to smell the flowers. The bassist appeared pleased; colour rose in his cheeks as he accepted the token. "I know it's not much, but it's what I had money for, now that we've got the flat. The boys pitched in a bob or two and we all bought records - some 45s plus two LPs - which are in the milk crate upstairs waiting for you: Duane Eddy, Chuck Berry, some new Motown singles. That sort of thing." 

"You didn't have to do that, Pete," John murmured softly. His gentle blue eyes regarded Pete's, gleaming as though the boys had bought him a thousand records and a house made of solid gold. 

"It's your birthday, John," Pete said simply. "I wanted to." If they'd still been upstairs in the flat, John would have picked the skinny young man up and spun him around. 

“Well...why don’t we just go for a walk, then come back for takeaway?” John suggested. “We can put records on and lounge around all evening, doing absolutely nothing important. After all, the birthday boy doesn’t want to do any dishes tonight.” Pete laughed and drew closer to John, settling his arm around the man’s waist and tucking his thumb into John’s trouser pocket for stability. 

“Sounds brilliant, love,” Pete responded, leaning in for a quick kiss. John glanced around, checking to make sure there were no pedestrians or motorists that might catch a glance of them before meeting Pete’s lips with his own. It was over as quickly as it began, but John felt sure that his partner would be willing to spare another kiss or two later in the evening. The birthday boy would be certain to ask for plenty of kisses. 

“Left or right, Townshend?” John asked, gesturing towards the sidewalk with a bob of his head. His black hair, now grown to the length of his chin, swished in the gentle breeze. The scent of John’s shampoo and something sweet carried on the wind filled Pete’s nostrils, bringing back memories of an afternoon eating brown-sugar beignets with the boys at the street fair earlier in the year. Pete met John’s gaze with a soft smile. 

“Your decision, birthday boy,” Pete teased, pressing a soft kiss to John’s cheek. “Just don’t pick anywhere near the train platform, or that cheap restaurant we always eat at. I’d rather we leave Keith and Rog to their devices for the rest of the day, and I guarantee they missed the quarter past train, if Keith had any say in the matter.” 

“I’ll have to keep these close, then, in case we see the boys,” John said, peering seriously into the brown paper cone holding his celebratory bouquet. “You know how our Loon loves to munch on flowers.”


End file.
